Everything
by amber-the-vamp
Summary: Watson is having trouble keeping his feelings for Holmes a secret from him. Thankfully, Holmes can help him out.


Everything

John Watson sat back in his chair, his hands together in his lap, fingertips touching to form a peak. He crossed his right ankle across to rest on his knee, and gazed across the room to his roommate. It was becoming harder than ever to simply talk to the man, even now, in this relaxed and familiar state, as he stood by the window gazing out at the streets of fair London. Watson wanted anything to just be able to stand up and shout, shout about everything he felt for the man, about everything going on inside, about everything there was to say. But he couldn't. He knew that.

There were so many reasons, so many thoughts, so _much_ everything_. _Whenever he got problems, got work, it was never done slowly, never done with consideration. One minute he'd be fine, relaxed, and happy, the next minute life would have thrown everything at him, all at once, and just expected him to get on with it. And that was the problem.

Things never happened to him in parts. Things never happened bit by bit, problem by problem, piece by piece. Oh no. They'd go without a case for three months, then suddenly, out of the blue, they'd be running for their lives, tracking down undead magicians and dangling off of a half-completed Tower Bridge. Things would come along all at once and hit him in the face, in a big ball of…_everything. _That's what Watson called it. Everything. That's all life ever gave him. Everything.

And right now, everything was spinning around in his head telling him to fess up, but yet it kept him quiet, forcing him to never say anything, to keep quiet and hope no-one found out. Everything was always there, shoving lies into his mouth, forming excuses on his tongue. And god, did he hate everything sometimes. But yet, despite this, he managed to succumb to its power, and stayed silent and afraid, hoping that one he day could gather up the courage and _tell_ him.

He knew he shouldn't be so scared, but it was the consequences of speaking out that scared him, not just Holmes' (possible) reaction. For one thing, it was illegal. He knew that shouldn't matter so much, not considering that he lived with Sherlock Holmes, who was half a criminal in himself, but the thought that he, a well-respected medical doctor and veteran of the Afghan War, could be reduced to that of a mere criminal, sharing a cell with a hundred other criminals, was simply sickening. No, the fear of being found out would destroy him, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to carry around a burden like that, not for long. It would just get too much before, again, he would feel the need to shout from the rooftops his greatest secrets, and that would never end well.

And of course, there was Holmes. What would he think if Watson told him? Would he be surprised, scared, even happy, or would he get so angry and disgusted with his friend that he'd throw John out on the street?

_Now, now, _Watson thought, _You're thinking rashly. _Holmes wasn't the kind of man to be against these things. Knowing him, he'd probably seen it all before, maybe even done it before. The thought vaguely cheered him up, but he still did nothing.

After all, it was easier that way. It was easier to do nothing, keep quiet and hope that no-one noticed. It was a miracle in itself, really, that no-one _had_ noticed. Living with Holmes had taught him how to disguise himself from the inspector's gaze, to make his emotions invisible and make the thoughts on his face harder to read. But despite this, he couldn't keep his feelings down, and he was becoming afraid that eventually, Holmes would realise. And he didn't know what he would do if that happened.

The fact of the matter was, Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't sure when it had happened, or why, really, he just knew it was true. Everything about him was beautiful; from the obvious things, like his face and legs and his gorgeous eyes- to the littler things, like the way he screwed up his left eye when he tried to remember where he'd put his jacket, and how he would sway, as if he was in a trance, eyes closed, whenever he played the violin. The way his eyes glittered whenever he was about to solve a case, the little huffy sighs he would give whenever he had to deal with Lestrade, the way he stood by the window, without a care in the world when he smoked his pipe, the way he-

_Oh dear, _Watson thought to himself, shifting in his chair as he noticed that Holmes was standing in _that very position _by the window, whiskey tumbler in hand, _you're completely smitten, aren't you?_

He sighed. Judging by his current condition, yes, yes he was. And he knew it should have felt wrong, that he should want to kill himself for the shame that he should have felt, but he didn't. John Watson, in love with a man! What would people say? Hell, even if Holmes accepted Watson's "condition" -as he was beginning to think of it as (he was a medical man, after all)- Holmes would obviously never love John back. And the pain of such heartbreak would surely prevent him from ever being able to love again, and of course his mother would realise that something was wrong if he ended up living his whole life without a wife, without anyone, dying alone- if she knew about how he felt for Holmes, she'd disown him, Watson was sure of it.

"There's something on your mind."

Watson jerked his head up at Holmes' words-he had been so lost in thought, he had almost forgotten that the object of his fantasies was standing in the same room as him, mere metres away. _Metres_- god, it would only take about five steps or so for him to cross the room and be in Holmes' arms. And once he was there, the things he would do…He realised his flatmate was looking at him over his shoulder, whiskey glass in one hand, a ghost of something akin to amusement on his lips. He groaned inwardly as he dimly registered that his words had been a statement, not a question. That was the problem with living with a detective of Sherlock's skill- every thought had to be kept hidden, buried under layer after layer of secrecy and white lies, until they became forgotten and irrelevant, deep down somewhere. He cursed himself inwardly for letting his mask slip away in front of Holmes. _Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

He shifted in his chair and sat up straight, resisting the urge-barely- to tug at his collar, hoping to hell that his friend hadn't worked it out. _Although, the faint trace of a smile on his face seemed to hint at something other than disgust_- Watson stopped that thought, not trusting himself to finish it. He knew that his feelings for Holmes were in vain, that he would always end up disappointed. It dawned on him that Sherlock was waiting for an answer from him, and that he had been silent for longer than seemed natural. He looked at Holmes, who was still staring at him intently, and feeling rather like a criminal under interrogation, he grinned wryly, trying to act like he wasn't flustered. "Just thinking about the latest case, my dear Holmes."

Holmes smirked, seeming satisfied with the answer, and lifted his whiskey glass to his lips to drain the last of the amber liquid from it. Watson tried not to stare at the long line of his neck too much as he drank. Oh, but what he'd do to put his lips on that neck, over his collarbone… Holmes set his empty glass on a side table and straightened, about to speak, when Mrs Hudson bustled in carrying a tea tray. He smiled at her, almost too sweetly, almost enough that it could cause suspicion, but not quite. Watson smiled despite himself. Holmes had been about to speak, only to be interrupted-he hated to be interrupted. He glanced at the clock-_bloody hell, was it four o'clock already? _He had to kick the irritating habit he had acquired recently, of just sitting and dreaming, of wishing his life away. He knew it killed time, but he didn't need to murder every waking moment of his life. He sighed. When would he forget his dreams of him and Sherlock and actually start living his life?

His gaze returned to his housekeeper, whom Holmes was obviously trying to usher out whilst keeping up his sickly-sweet demeanour. John's eyes narrowed- why did Holmes seem so desperate to get rid of her? They had appeared to be finished with their conversation- what did Holmes have to say, that could only be said when they were alone?

Mrs Hudson left, leaving a strange, almost awkward silence hanging thick in the air. Neither seemed to want to speak first. Watson sat forward, glad of the distraction of making the tea. He could feel Holmes staring at him and forced himself not to look up, afraid that he would give himself up if he met those inquisitive orbs.

He finished pouring his cup and started on Holmes', who walked over and sat down in his chair across from him. Only when Holmes had picked up his cup did Watson sit back and look at him.

His friend took a sip of his tea, made exactly as he liked it by Watson, and sat back. He picked up a volume from the side table, drank a little more, and set his cup down before beginning to read. Watson drank his tea, irritated with himself that he could be so affected by the image of a man reading. His heart ached, and he longed to set the book aside, and teach Holmes new, exciting but terrible things that his book on Greek philosophy could never teach him, show him a whole new way of thinking that the book didn't understand. Watson took another rushed gulp and willed himself to stop thinking of these things. It wasn't good for him.

They continued like that for a few minutes, Holmes reading and Watson drinking. John began to calm down a little- Holmes had clearly forgotten about the conversation they had been having earlier, and he was relieved. He didn't trust himself in those kinds of situations. It was because of this that he let his guard down, and so he was completely thrown when Holmes spoke and broke the silence.

"There isn't a case."

John started in surprise, and looked up at Holmes over his teacup. His friend was still looking at his book, fascinated at the muses of Plato or someone similar, but Watson was sure he could see something akin to a smirk playing across his lips. He stared at Holmes and frowned. "Sorry, _what?_"

"You said you were thinking about our case. I haven't had a case in over a month." Holmes refused to look at Watson, and turned a page of his paperback casually. His manner was rather off-putting, and made Watson feel rather small. He swallowed and found that his mouth was suddenly very dry. He took another gulp of his tea and struggled to answer. "Well, I…you know, it's habit, and the thing is…well, ahem, the way I…" He tried in vain to control his breathing, which along with his heartbeat, was fast and shallow, "What I mean to say is-" He stopped as he realised that Holmes was chuckling softly. He blinked at him, unsure at what had happened to his body, and when he had completely lost control.

Holmes smirked at him over the top of his book, amusement glittering in his eyes. He set his book aside and laughed again, leaning his face on his hand and looking at Watson. John simply stared, not caring that his mask had slipped and crashed to the ground, splintering into a thousand pieces and revealing years' worth of raw emotion, all of which was probably showing on his face at that very moment. He just wanted to know _what the hell _was going on.

"You're awfully sweet." Watson blinked bemusedly at Holmes, who was grinning broadly, leaning his cheek on his knuckles and looking around the room. He carried on, still not looking at him, "I knew from the beginning, about how I felt, and what you were like, but I wouldn't say. At least you helped me with that."

It was now that Holmes moved his eyes to his, and Watson saw such emotion in them, such as he had never seen before. He looked at him, eyes wide and staring, and Holmes smiled, turning and burying his face slightly is his hand, looking away again. The gesture entirely melted Watson's heart, and he let out a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding in. Holmes smiled softly again, before looking down at his hands, which were fidgeting in his lap.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier." He continued to watch his hands, which turned together and Watson began to realise how nervous Holmes was. He'd never seen him like this before- struggling to find the words and unable to meet his gaze. Gone was the confident, cocky demeanour that had thrown John off; now his friend was tense and anxious, and it was odd to see the great Sherlock Holmes like this. He continued. "I didn't know if you'd agree-"

"Of course I would have agreed." Sherlock's eyes snapped to his as Watson spoke; his hands stilled in his lap. He was shocked: "You would?"

John looked at him. He didn't have to say anything; he just stared at him, and hoped to hell that Holmes could deduce everything he felt from his eyes this time, because he'd been ridiculously blind beforehand. But then again, they both had.

They sat there staring into each other's eyes for an impossibly long time, until Watson began to wonder if he had read Sherlock's intentions wrong, if he didn't care about him like that at all, and if he'd been an utter moron the whole time. He was about to avert his eyes, to apologise and look away, when Sherlock's eyes widened and a grin broke across his face. He stared at John, practically radiating joy and relief, grinning and grinning, before launching himself out of his chair and walking quickly into Watson's arms, pressing their lips together.

He pulled away when the need for air forced them apart, and panting heavily, murmured, "I've been stupid, I'm so sorry. I should have known-"

John pressed a finger to his reddened lips to silence him. "Don't. We've both been stupid, and now we're making up for lost time."

Sherlock buried is face in his neck, and John could feel his smile warm against his skin. "I love you, John Watson."

"And I you, Sherlock Holmes." Watson smiled and Holmes giggled slightly with glee before he captured his lips again.

John couldn't thank everything enough.

~FIN~


End file.
